Reflections in a Smoky Bar
by Evangeline Henri
Summary: Some of us are doomed to be lonely. And some of us aren't. Taito. Yaoi.


"Reflections in a Smoky Bar"  
  
Summary: Some of us are doomed to be lonely. And some of us aren't. Taito. Yaoi.  
Rating: PG-13  
Archives: Anywhere, just let me know  
Dedication- To lonely nights and black ink... and my dog.  
*****  
  
Okay, so there was this kid, right? God, he couldn't have been more than   
seventeen, and there he was, walking into the bar and heaving himself onto a stool. He   
was a clean-cut type, probably an athlete or some shit. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt like   
every other kid on the street, but his hair, man... his hair was something else. It kind of   
took over his whole head, like some bizarre salon disaster.  
  
As soon as he sat down, the bartender noticed him. At first, I thought he was just   
going to card him, then throw him out. But the bartender, he was one of those old-school   
types- the kind who'd let you drunkenly pour your heart out to him, and call you a cab   
when you were done. And he took one look at this kid, and said, "What's your poison?"   
in that gruff film-noire voice.  
  
Apparently, the boy wasn't expecting to be served, so it took him a while to think   
of something. "Beer," he finally spat out. Seeing the look on the bartender's face,   
though, he thought better of his idea, and amended, "I mean, coke." The guy nodded, and   
turned around.  
  
By now, the vodka I had been nursing was forgotten. This kid, he was obviously   
in a bad place. He was slumped over the counter, staring numbly at some piece of paper   
in his hands that I couldn't quite see. His eyes were bloodshot, his face tear-stained, and   
somehow you just knew the was something wrong besides the brown furry animal he had   
strapped to his scalp. I'm a chronic people-watcher, have been all my life, so I knew   
instantly what it was. He was in love. And not the roses and sunbeam, moonlit stroll   
down the beach shit the movies try to pass off as love. He was in the clutches of the real   
thing- the bloody, sweaty, seamy underbelly everybody knows but nobody admits to.  
  
The bartender saw that too, I think. He's another people-watcher; you've got to be   
in his line of work. I bet he's almost as good at it as I am; he can probably smell pain   
and heartache a mile away. He slid the kid his Coke, and watched him drink, gulping down   
that teeth-rotting garbage as if he had been sucked dry. And he most likely had been--   
love tends to do that to you. Pull out everything from inside of you 'till you're empty,   
then keep pulling.  
  
For a while, the whole joint was quiet. It's not a very popular spot- behind the   
stadium, wedged between a drycleaner's and an abandoned diner. Besides the kid and me,   
there was only one other customer- a scraggly, dirty old man sitting all the way in the   
corner. Every once in a while, the bartender'd refill his glass, and he's break out into   
another garbled rant on the wrongs of his youth. Other than that, silence. I guess people   
don't come here for companionship.  
  
The kid banged his head on the bar dejectedly, making the whole place rattle. The   
bartender eyed him. "Got something on your mind?" he asked.  
  
"More than you could imagine," he muttered darkly, eyes still fixed on that   
goddamned piece of paper.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," the bartender said, rubbing his balding head with a chubby   
palm. "I've been doin' this for a while- heard just about every reason anyone comes in   
here. Try me." I listened intently; this doubting tactic of his never failed to elicit   
some sort of confession.  
  
"Well," the boy hesitated. "There's this person..." he looked around, and I   
quickly dropped my eyes back to my vodka. Let the kid think he was baring his soul   
unobserved. Satisfied, he continued. "And M-- this person and me have been best friends   
for, like, ever. We're closer than anyone I know. But, lately..." he sighed, rubbing his   
temples. Probably forcing back tears.  
  
I glanced at the kid. You can't help but feel sorry for these types. Coming in here,   
hoping to get plastered so they can forget, and what do they end up with? A coke and the   
sympathetic ear of the guy serving it to them. If I was a Catholic, I'd say they needed to   
got to confession, to air their troubles out with a kind and merciful God. But I'm not, and   
neither is He... and I think this is more therapeutic.  
  
Finally, I caught a good look what he was clutching. A ticket for tonight's concert   
over at the stadium. So he wasn't really in the middle of an emotional crisis! Just over   
stimulated by the mushy crap parading as music to teenagers nowadays. Disgusted, I   
almost turned away. But there was something deeper in that kid's voice, something more   
real than just an adolescent crush that made me stop. His heart was breaking in two, and   
no pop song could do that.  
  
He finally got in control of his emotions. "Yeah, well... we haven't been getting   
along too well. And it's funny, because I love him, you know? God," he croaked. "He's   
my best friend, and I'm fucking in love with him!"   
  
At that point, the poor bastard lost his battle not to cry. A choked sob escaped   
his lips, a tear squeezing out of his eye and down his cheek. Another followed, then another.   
Soon, he was bawling, head between his hands on the grimy countertop. Each sob racked his   
body, making him shudder violently. Thank god the bartender hadn't served him any liquor;   
I'd hate to see this kid drunk.  
  
Suddenly, a tinkle of bells announced the arrival of someone else. Unwillingly, I   
tore my eyes of the quaking boy to see the newcomer.  
  
It was another kid. This one was a blue-eyed blond, a regular teen pinup come to   
life. He wore a beaten t-shirt and cuffed jeans, and I'm sure he thought he was pretty damn  
cool. He was gleaming with sweat, moisture making his clothes hug his body. I vaguely   
remembered seeing his toothy grin before on some music magazine.  
  
He saw the other kid, still crying, and I realized that he was the subject of the   
first one's misery. "Tai," he called.  
  
Hearing his name, Tai looked up. He saw his friend, and paled considerably,   
obviously embarrassed. "Matt," he whispered, and ran to him.  
  
Matt wrapped his arms around Tai, rubbing his back. "It's okay, Tai. It's okay."  
  
"B-but," he stammered. "What about your show?"  
  
"We just finished," his friend replied. "What's wrong?"  
  
Tai pulled out of the embrace awkwardly. "There's something I gotta' tell you,"   
he sniffled, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "And it's okay if you don't feel the same   
way, but Matt," he looked up. "I love you." Silence.   
  
"Tai," Matt began. He cringed, anticipating rejection, and took a deep breath,   
steeling himself to the disappointment. "I love you, too." Tai's eyes opened wide with   
shock. Matt sighed. "God, didn't you know that? I thought it was obvious how I felt."  
  
"Then," Tai hesitated. "What about all those songs? The ones where you keep   
singing about some girl? Aren't they for Sora, or Mimi, or one of your groupies?"  
  
"Of course not!" Matt said indignantly. "They're all for you, every last one of   
them. My manager just edits them so they'll sell better. I've been writing poems and   
songs about you ever since we first met; they're the only reason all these emotions don't   
tear me apart. I have notebooks full of me, dreaming about you." He reached out and   
traced the path of one of Tai's now-stilled tears, from the corner of his eye, over a silky   
cheek, down to his chin. "I've always loved you."  
  
Tai sighed, expelling his inhibitions and fears with a breath. Matt leaned in, and   
suddenly they were kissing. To an outsider, it looked blistering, as they released what   
must have been years of unresolved tension in mere seconds. Their mouths were grabbing,   
sucking, pulling at each ferociously. If I wasn't hardened by years of experience, I would   
have turned away in voyeuristic shame, still, I felt myself becoming red.  
  
When they had to come up for air, Matt smiled. "Come on," he said, running a   
hand through Tai's sea of hair. "Let's go home." He wrapped his arm around him, and   
they were almost out the door when they abruptly stopped.  
  
Tai whirled around, and ran back to the bar. He pulled a crinkled bill out of the   
back pocket of his jeans, and dropped it in on the bar. He flashed an appreciative smile at   
the bartender, before running back to Matt and giving him a quick peck on the cheek.   
They exited together, arm in arm, content in a universe of their own making.  
  
After the noisy door slammed shut, the bartender returned to wiping down the bar,   
just as he had before the kid arrived. When he passed me, though, there was a new   
twinkle in his eyes.  
  
Some nights, I sit in that bar with nothing but the ravings of that crazy bum in the   
corner to listen to. I swear to God, if I have to listen to another of his rambling tales   
another "the good old days," I think I might go crazy, too. Some nights I think I already   
have. And then there'll be nights like that one, when all this people watching of mine'll   
pay off, because I'll get to see two human beings lift their heads out of their shells, and   
realize that they're not alone anymore.  
  
-The End-  
  
Comments? Feedback? A hog-tied Ken? Exploding Magical Kiwis from the Great   
Unknown? Send them my way! 


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